Passing the Time
by mabsy
Summary: Sequel to L&O: IAB. Forester is now working with Eames at MCS, while Goren has been reassigned to patrol duty with Santelli. A case comes along that brings the four together. Some swearing, some BA undertones.
1. Prologue: Forrester and Eames, MCS

**Note:** Characters from TV aren't mine, but ones that aren't are.

**Also:** Sequel to my previous work, L&O IAB.

**And:** Thank you, Squarey.

* * *

"Really?" Sharpie asked his new partner incredulously. "A cop?"

She nodded, half smiled and kept her eyes on the road. "A cop," she repeated.

"I am disappointed, Alexandra," he said with mock severity. "Most disappointed." He scrunched his face in faux-disgust. "That's so _uninspired."_

Alex's half smile stayed put as she shrugged and kept driving. "It's true. A cop." She cast him a sidelong glance as she expertly avoided some jaywalking pedestrians. "What about you?"

"Oh that's easy," he said breezily. "I would name lipsticks."

Her laugh burst out of her as if it were waiting several long years to be liberated from a tower. He was pleased it had finally lost the rusty sound he'd noticed when he first came on board. A woman like Alexandra Eames should laugh often; it transformed her stern policeman's mug into that of a delighted pixie. Sharpie figured if anything else, his time at Major Case was well spent making Alex laugh.

"If you could do anything," she said in disbelief.

"Uh huh."

"Anything at all," she emphasized, as if he hadn't understood the question.

"Yup."

"You would name lipsticks," she repeated.

"Absolutely."

When the silence stretched on, she laughed again. "You're serious."

"Definitely." He turned to her. "Think about it," he said warming to the topic. "Color and words combine in a marketing synergy that defies logic and beautifies the world – Taupe Tempest, Currant-ly Available, Berry Blitz." He waved his hand emphatically. "I would probably branch out into eye shadow. Genius like mine should not be limited."

She smiled big. He felt like he won the lottery. "You have given this a lot of thought."

He shrugged. "Passes time in the basement." He eyed her closely. "You use neutrals," he declared. "Probably to minimize your delicate features, de-emphasize the feminine." She beamed at him. Odds were good that any other guy saying the same thing would have gotten a not-so-feminine fist to the face, but Sharpie knew he was exceptional. "I bet you would look great in plum tones. They'd bring out the warmth of your eyes while appealing to the cool of your soul, my Aubergine Queen."

She decided to ignore his make up advice but couldn't stop grinning. Her face muscles were going to hurt long before their time together was over. "And Santelli, what would she do?"

"Rockette," he said without missing a beat. "She tried out back in the day, but she was about an inch and a half too tall. She then decided to use her powers of the dance to shake it for the NYPD." His eyes went back to the road as she slowed the SUV and executed a parallel parking maneuver that would make a driver's ed instructor come to Jesus. In Manhattan, this woman was a rare gem of a driver. "Gus would have just double parked and yelled at the Traffic who dared ticket her," he commented.

"There are enough assholes who park like shit in this city. I don't have to be one of them," Alex turned the car off and clipped on her badge as she opened her door. "I also don't need Traffic on my case."

He chuckled as he unbuckled and got out. "Noted. And I will let Inspector Santelli know next time she parks like shit." He clipped on his own badge and the two went to survey the crime scene.


	2. Earlier that Day

**Note:** Gus and co are mine, Bobby and Alex aren't. I would be willing to trade.

**Also:** Squarey is the best.

* * *

_Earlier that day_

Gus circled the block and double parked the black and white in front of the brownstone on Manhattan's Upper West Side. Bobby cringed inwardly at the obvious lack of driving finesse; it was not a maneuver Eames would consider pulling. Santelli put on the flashers and unbuckled her belt. She turned to Bobby and folded her arms across her chest.

"Are you gonna talk to me?" she asked. He was silent most of the ride from Grand Central. "Cuz this is going to be hard enough without you giving me the silent treatment, too."

Bobby refused to back down. He unbuckled his own seatbelt and adjusted the badge on his uniform. "It's racial profiling," he grumbled as he got out of the passenger's seat.

"It's not racial profiling," she said again as she got out of the car and opened the back door to retrieve a leather bag. She shot a dirty look at a Lexus driving their direction down the now narrow street. The car slowed and waited for her to close both doors and get to the curb before it accelerated and sailed on.

"You feel the need to punish a certain class of people," he explained as they walked toward the door. "They don't fit the traditional definition, but singling out Caucasian men in expensive suits is still racial profiling."

"It just so happens that a lot of who comes through Grand Central happen to be white guys in suits," she said haughtily. When it was clear he wasn't going to buy it, she tried a different track.

"Look." She puffed out a breath. "I've already apologized for keeping the guy's man purse. I am not going to say sorry for doing my job."

"Your job is to check backpacks and assess the possibility of a terrorist threat," Bobby reminded her. "Not to stop every guy in Hugo Boss and rifle through his spreadsheets."

"I can't help it if those guys act suspicious," she shot back.

"You wear Chanel suits," he pointed out patiently. "A sign of affluence and entitlement, like any Hugo Boss suit."

"My sister Aurelia is a buyer at Macy's, so I get a discount" she said scowling. "So fucking what?"

"Someone looking at you might make the same snap judgment about you acting suspicious."

She shrugged off his conclusion. "As long as I have a badge, Goren, the only snap judgment that's made about me is that I am a ball buster." She smiled all teeth. "I'm good with that."

He tried again. "It's not really about that," he said. "You don't like your brother in law…uh…the one married to the doctor sister," he paused. She had so many sisters. "The consultant?"

"Phil. He's married to Julia."

"Right, Phil." He stopped at the top of the stone stairs and looked at her. "Julia? Augusta? Aurelia?" he said suddenly. "You're named after Roman emperors."

She turned and looked at him. "Sure. Cosmo Santelli is a freak for the Old Country, and I mean the old, pre-Pope country, so he named his children after emperors." She ticked off her fingers. "Julia Rose, Augusta Rose, Aurelia Rose, Actually," she mused. You really should meet Rey. She goes for the broody, broken type." She rolled her eyes and continued. "The last guy was a poet, but since poets on the payroll went out with French salons in the eighteenth century, he actually had to work selling overpriced mani/pedi packages to unsuspecting suckers on the street." She whipped her head sharply back when she heard a car cruise by, but at the prospect of trying to pass the double parked police car, the driver backed out and avoided the road entirely. She glanced back at Bobby. "Where was I?"

"The poet," Bobby responded.

She waved her hand dismissively. "Whatever. He's out of the picture. So Jules, me, Rey, oh yeah, there's Galba Rose, but never call her Galba, she goes by Gail. And then the baby, Vespasia Rose, Patsy." She smiled as she pressed the bell. "Santelli Roses, descended from Caesar."

He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. Augusta Santelli gave him a headache. He was looking forward to sitting in a car with Eames, the silence comfortably companionable, the communication mostly non-verbal. "You are trying to punish Phil every time you stop one of those guys."

"Well, yeah," she said without remorse. "Duh." She rolled her eyes. "Guys like that are jackasses, Phil especially." She knocked on the door. "What does a consultant really do anyway? Gets paid a lot of money to pretend he thinks big," she grumbled. They both stood straighter as they heard footsteps approach the door. After a minute she said. "OK, I will cop to _jackass_ profiling. Happy now?"

Bobby sighed. It was hard to read someone who so readily admitted to her own neuroses. He brought it up during one of their many shifts at various subway stations and she responded that nearly dying from a gunshot wound while wearing nothing but pasties and a g-string gives one new perspective; she didn't have time for bullshit. No time for bullshit, but plenty of time to punish white guys in suits, a habit which had landed him on the stairs of a brownstone on 108th street returning a satchel full of little figures to a man who left it behind in a rush to catch his train.

The door opened and an artificially attractive blonde in her 50s opened the door, looking surprised to see two uniform officers on her stoop. Bobby cast a sidelong glance at his temporary partner and understood what an imposing tableau the two of them made; Santelli was much taller than Eames, and standing next to him he knew they must intimidate people. He took a step down and let Santelli do the talking. He was grateful that wouldn't be long before he was back standing next to his real partner.

"Can I help you, Officers?" the woman asked in a slight British accent. Upon closer inspection, her hair color was definitely not natural. Her track suit was expensive and designed more for looks than functionality, and she sported a giant yellow stone on her left ring finger. Citrine maybe. Taking in the entire package - the woman practically screamed money - Bobby changed his assessment; yellow diamond, 2.5 carats, emerald cut framed by sapphires. The thing could signal aircraft at JFK.

"Good evening, ma'am," Santelli began and removed her hat. "We are sorry to bother you. Is-" She checked the card attached to the handle of the satchel, "Garrett Grey available?"

"My husband is home, but upstairs in his study, probably napping," she said. "He was at work early this morning to supervise an installation. I'm Summit Grey. Can I help you?"

"I'm Inspec…Officer Santelli." She jerked her thumb backward. "This is my partner, Dete…Officer Goren." She held up the satchel. "Your husband left his briefcase in Grand Central Station at an NYPD checkpoint today and my partner and I wanted to return it."

Mrs Grey squinted at the satchel. "I don't recognize that, Officer. Are you sure it belongs to my husband?"

Gus flashed the woman the business card attached to the handle of the bag. "Garrett Grey, 108th Street, that your husband?" Summit Grey nodded. "Then it's his."

Mrs Grey shook her head. "Garrett's always bringing work home with him in whatever bag he has lying around." She blew air out between her pouted lips. "The other day he brought home Aphrodite in a Duane Reade shopping bag. Can you imagine?" Bobby and Gus looked at each other. _Drunk_, mouthed Gus and Bobby half shrugged. Mrs. Grey backed up from doorway and waved them in. "Listen, why don't you two come in for some coffee and I will retrieve him. He will want to reward you for your diligence."

Gus looked skeptically at Bobby over her right shoulder since they both knew that Mr. Grey would probably not want to thank them for stopping him, rifling through his stuff, and keeping a bag of it as they sent him on his way. Bobby gestured with his hand that she should precede him. As they walked in, Bobby removed his hat and took a look around.

At first glance, the brownstone seemed modest enough for the neighborhood, but they were ushered inside a grand foyer dominated by a wooden staircase that wound slowly up. Off to the left was a small sitting parlor, complete with a Degas print over the fireplace and a baby grand piano.

Mrs Grey walked over to a little box near the stairs and pressed a button. Somewhere from above, they could hear a faint buzzer sound. "Study is all the way at the top," she explained pointing upward and waving her finger around vaguely. "Don't want to climb all those stairs. Intercom."

At Gus's sharp intake of breath, Bobby looked over at his new partner to see her staring raptly above their heads. He followed her gaze and was startled to see that the high ceiling went up at least five floors and was decorated with a reproduction of the mural that graced Grand Central Station's Main Concourse.

Mrs. Grey looked up to see what they were staring at. "Oh, the mural," she said. "Lived in this house nearly thirty years, so I just forget it's there."

Gus looked at their hostess. "This is a Helleu?" She glanced back up at the ceiling. Bobby was surprised that Santelli knew the artist of the famous mural.

"He did this first, in 1907, for a friend who lived here at the time" Summit Grey's voice took on a tour guide quality. "Then, based on the sketches of this work, they commissioned the mural at Grand Central which he finished in 1912."

Bobby took a look around. "There's a subtle difference," he said. "The constellations in Grand Central are drawn backward, to give the viewer the impression he is looking at them from somewhere other than Earth." He pointed to a couple of clusters and Gus nodded.

"These are drawn the correct way," she said.

"Geocentric," confirmed Bobby.

Mrs Grey smiled broadly. "I had no idea the NYPD were so culturally savvy!" she exclaimed. "You are going to love the rest of the house." She made for the stairs and motioned for them to follow.

"Goren," whispered Gus as she slowly climbed the staircase. The banister wood was carved with elaborate Chinese dragons and Bobby figured that with an authentic Helleu mural above them, it wasn't likely that these dragons were knockoffs from Chinatown.

"Yeah?"

"Somehow I don't think that print of "Blue Dancers" is a print," she said quietly. Bobby glanced back at the painting in the parlor as he walked up the stairs behind his partner. He looked quizzically at her, cocking his head slightly to the left.

"What? I was a dancer," she said defensively as if she could read his mind and the question that had formed. "Growing up my room was all ballerina posters and worn out toe shoes. I know a Degas when I see one."

The second floor proved to be one large room dominated by a giant set of bay windows. A huge flat screen TV, flashing images of Tyra on mute, proclaimed this to be a living room. Two sofas, light on comfort heavy on expense, made an L-shape green oasis in a room the color of the desert and were buffeted by a glass coffee table. Several end tables were littered with knickknacks.

"I bet the cleaning lady loves this room," murmured Gus.

"Make yourselves comfortable, I'll be back with coffee." Summit Grey continued up the stairs, presumably toward a kitchen, as Bobby and Gus wandered further into the living room.

Bobby examined the table closest to the stairs as Gus wandered over to the windows. A male figurine, standing with one foot forward with his left hand grasping a long walking stick, was mounted on a piece of wood. He wore a cream colored kilt and a red headdress. Bobby ran his finger over the exceptionally detailed work and could feel the cracks and imperfections in the wood and plaster. This piece was very old; probably almost two thousand years before the Common Era. It definitely belonged in a museum. Bobby glanced around the room and saw that Gus was similarly mesmerized by pieces over near the window. He walked over to see what she had discovered.

"Santelli," he said and she started.

"Look at this Goren," she said and held the piece out to him. "Lion headed goddess of Ancient Egypt."

"Sakhmet."

She nodded. "This does not strike me as a reproduction, either."

"It fits with what I found, a statue of a King of Lower Egypt." He looked around. "This whole room is strewn with artifacts from that time." He looked up and around. "It's why it's painted a desert yellow, to augment the presence of these figures."

Gus gave the bag a little shake. "Somehow I don't think this is a bag of Precious Moments figurines," she concurred. "Helleu mural, Degas painting, now these. What the hell is going on here?"

"I don't have any cream," Summit Grey called out as she wobbled down the stairs carrying a tray. "So I hope milk is a favorable substitute." Bobby hustled over to take the tray from her as she motioned for him to put it down on a glass coffee table. Gus delicately placed Sakhmet back on her end table and sat on the edge of the couch.

"We don't want to be a bother, ma'am," she said.

"Oh, it's no bother!" insisted Mrs. Grey. "It's so nice to have visitors. And really, Garrett will be relieved to have his things back."

"What did you say your husband did?" Bobby asked.

"Garrett is a curator at the Met," she replied while she stood the cups right side up on their saucers. It took a few tries. "Greek and Roman wing." She looked around the room. "Although you couldn't really tell by looking at what's in here." She waved dismissively as she leaned in to pick up the coffee pot to pour. "We have so many pieces from so many places and times."

She handed Bobby a cup, and then poured and handed Gus a cup, then poured herself a splash of coffee. She filled most of the rest of her cup with milk. She added four lumps of sugar and stirred around once and took a sip. She took a flask out of the front pocket of her sweatshirt and added a generous amount of whatever it was, stirred again and swigged from her cup.

"Mrs Grey," began Gus.

"Oh Summit!" she corrected.

"OK, Summit." Gus sat down her cup. "We are very happy just to leave Mr Grey's man pur…er bag here." She gestured to Bobby. "My partner and I really have to get back to the precinct so we can log out and head home."

"Oh, do you have children?" an increasingly intoxicated Summit Grey turned to Bobby and asked with a little hitch to her voice.

"No ma'am."

"Me neither," she said on a sigh. "How I would have adored a little baby. I would have named it Stormy. Isn't that cute? Stormy Grey." She leaned into Bobby and said in what she believed was a whisper. "Garrett shoots blanks." She turned her bleary eyed gaze toward Gus. "Do you have children, Officer?"

"Yes ma'am, I have five."

"Five!" Their hostess attempted to clap her hands together in delight, but she mostly missed, the momentum carrying her to the left. Bobby righted her gently.

"All boys" said Gus. "So you can imagine how anxious I am to return home and make sure none of them burned down the house while I was at work."

"Of course, of course," she rose and listed to the side. Bobby once again gave her a gentle push so she could make her way to the staircase almost upright. "Well, let me just go and get Garrett." She grimaced. "So many stairs."

"Really, Mrs. Grey, we can just leave the bag," Bobby insisted.

"Nonsense! Now that we are such good friends, it's really not a bother." Their hostess made her way haltingly up the stairs and disappeared again.

"One thing's for sure, she's rich enough to afford to be that weird." Gus remarked.

"She's lonely," Bobby said as he looked around the room. "Trapped in this house all day with all these dead pieces of art, it has to wear on a person."

"Don't think the vodka helps, either."

Both officers were startled when they heard the unmistakable sound of their hostess' scream. Guns drawn, they made their way up to the next floor, housing a giant kitchen. Pausing to survey the scene, Gus motioned with her head that she had his back, so Bobby carefully made his way up the next flight of stairs. Another scream made him speed up to the next floor, the very top of the brownstone.

"Mrs Grey?" he called. "Summit?"

"Oh, come quickly!" Summit Grey wailed. "I think he's dead!"


	3. What We Have Here

**Note:** Alex and Bobby aren't mine. Sadly.

**Also:** Thanks, Squarey

"What do we have here?" Sharpie asked the lead homicide detective, a pointy faced street veteran who had seen a lot of murder in her time, but nothing quite like this. He knew her, of course. Years ago she walked a beat and had a bully of a partner whose penchant for hitting women had crossed a line and gave her that scar near her left ear. He took her statement and eventually the man's badge. She looked older, her brown hair was now streaked with grey, and slightly nervous, as if she was concerned he would say something in front of the crime scene techs. He knew the smell of rat was contagious and didn't have a statute of limitations, so held out his hand as if he had never spoken to her, handed her a tissue, or arrested her partner. She didn't take it.

"Inspector, er, Detective Forester, Major Case," he said.

"Maxie Teal, from Two-Four around the corner. Welcome to the Upper West, Detective." She flipped open her notebook. "Called in by two uniforms who happened to be here returning an item left behind at a subway check point." She handed Sharpie the statements and continued. "Wife discovered him dead on the floor of the study," she recited. "ID'd as Garrett Grey, curator at the Met." She looked inside the room to where Eames was squatting next to the body. "Explains why you Major Case darlings got called."

"Thanks," said Forester ignoring the last remark and playing the game her way. "You sure it's not a heart attack?"

"See for yourself," Teal said as she pointed. Sharpie entered the room and grinned at his current partner. Eames was hunkered down next to a bloated mess of a body, her latexed fingers probing the victim's swollen protruding tongue. She walked her fingers up to examine the face, which was now a violent and contorted purple.

"We've got it from here," Forester told Teal as he gestured to Eames. "Thanks for your time, Detective Teal." The homicide detective shrugged and left the room.

"How quickly you've replaced me, Detective Eames," Sharpie chided, letting a little hurt creep into his voice as he stood above her. "And all because I'm a little late." He shook is head. "Who's your new friend?"

"What can I say, he was here on time and his boyish good looks are irresistible," she quipped. She glanced up at him. "You have a glow about you, Calvin. Did you jog up all those stairs?" He beamed and she turned back to the body. "I hate that you didn't even break a sweat." She sat back on her heels, wrinkling her nose. "Goren usually does this part."

"Pulling rank," he said apologetically. "I don't _do_ bodies."

"Santelli handles the driving and the cadavers?"

"To tell the truth Alexandra," he said as he squatted down next to her. "There are a lot less bodies in Internal Affairs than one would think." He used his pen to poke at the body's stiff hand. "And any bodies I came across in my SWAT days were at a significant distance." He gestured to the body as he rose. "Garrett Grey, curator at the Met, wife found him dead while she was entertaining two of New York's finest."

"We'll know more once the ME takes a look," Eames said. "But I've never seen a heart attack turn a guy that color. Looks like an accidental OD, or poison maybe."

"Alexandra, did you hear me?" he asked as he held out a hand.

Eames took it and rose, nodding in acknowledgement of his gallant gesture as she wiped her knees of post its and other desk debris. Mr Grey's collapse had dislodged approximately twenty years of office flotsam which landed on every conceivable surface. She looked around the crime scene. "Hmmm?" she said, obviously distracted.

"I said, two of NYPD's finest were here when the wife discovered the body."

"That's weird," she remarked. Sharpie handed her the statements he had received from Detective Teal.

"It gets weirder," he promised. "Take a look at which two."


	4. Jabba's Sense of Style

**Note**: Same old same. Don't own, just borrowing.

**Also**: Thanks Squarey

* * *

Gus sipped her coffee. Once the cops from the local precinct showed and took their statements, Gus and Bobby had left to park their car and wait for the inevitable; a high profile death like Grey's could only be handled by Major Case. Since she wasn't going to make it home for dinner, Gus insisted they go down the street to a bodega and get a snack. "Logan and Wheeler?" She asked hopefully as they walked back toward the Grey home. "Or that other guy and his partner?"

Bobby frowned in concentration and kept walking. A few minutes passed in silence as Gus waited. "Jeffries and Massey?" he supplied at last.

"Right, Jeffries and Massey." She considered it as she sipped thoughtfully. "Nah. Not Jeffries," she declared. "Logan and Wheeler."

"Wishful thinking," he dismissed. "Not Logan. And it won't be Jefferies and Massey either."

"Damn," she swore. "I like Logan."

They walked in silence, each secretly dreading the questioning they will face as subordinates from their respective former and future partners. As they turned the corner, Bobby could see the house up ahead, bustling with activity as crime techs removed evidence from the scene. _Eames._

"If she had been a real hooker back then," Gus said as if reading his mind. "Alexandra Eames would have been able to retire early."

Bobby nearly stumbled. He righted himself and continued walking. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this, but he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Catholic School Girl?" He was just trying to make conversation. Really.

Gus was disgusted in the way that vice cops get with others don't understand the subtle nuances involved with faking prostitution. "Jesus, God, no." She scowled at him, "Any two bit hooker wanna be could work the Catholic school girl thing. So totally cliché. Lacks any kind of imagination." She rolled her eyes and kept walking. "Brittney Spears, even."

He didn't say anything, knowing he didn't have to.

"Two words," she said. "Metal. Bikini." She glanced over.

"Metal bikini?" He repeated, trying hard not to picture it.

"Yeah. The genius is, Goren, that every guy has a Princess Leia thing. _ Every guy_." She pointed emphatically toward the bustling crowd of the CSU. "All she needed to wear was a metal bikini top. Add some over the knee boots and a little skirt and boom! Guys were driving in circles around her, begging to take her home." Gus stopped to drink the last of her coffee. "I remember my then partner, Fawn Brindle, she's the L-T up at the Three-One now, said 'Damnit Gus, that should have been your act. Fuck this Cleopatra shit. Too brainy.'" She tossed her cup in a municipal garbage can and continued to walk. "Eames was a genius, back in Vice. Nobody could bust a perp harder or faster." She shook her head as they mounted the stairs to the Grey house. "I think people underestimate her. Small must mean fragile, right? Not our Eames. You probably know that though." She walked inside ahead of him. "Maybe I shouldn't have told you about the metal bra, seeing as how you have to work with her again soon." She looked at the now familiar brownstone. "Like in two minutes."

"Oh thank God you're back!" Summit Grey exclaimed when she saw them enter the foyer. She gestured for them to follow her and called over her shoulder and up the stairs "Did you hear that back there? Santos and Gardner are here. My _real_ police friends!" She paused to clasp Bobby's hand. "They sent these awful people over." She shivered involuntarily. "They asked me ghastly questions about Garrett. They think I killed him!"

"It's just routine, Summit," Bobby soothed. He had seen her kind before and knew a little empathy was in order to get her to cooperate. He carefully extracted his hand from her surprisingly firm grip and motioned for her to precede him on the stairs.

As they walked up the stairs, several crime scene technicians went by carrying boxes of papers and office equipment, including a computer and laptop. A couple of techs gave Bobby a nod in acknowledgement, which he returned, but they avoided catching Gus's eye. "Cops don't like rats," she whispered by way of explanation. "Despite the fact that Violet Wood over there lives four houses from me and her kid is in my kid's class." The tech in question was carrying a computer tower and walking out the door. "Come Saturday, we'll shoot the shit at hockey practice, like we always do." They continued past the living room on the second floor to the third.

"I told them," Summit said glaring toward the living room on the second floor where techs were dusting for fingerprints and bagging little statues for evidence. "I told them you were coming."

Bobby grimaced inwardly. "Hey, Butterfield," he called out to one of the techs who had stuck Sakhmet clumsily in a bag. "Could you guys be a little careful here? That's museum quality." The tech looked at Bobby and nodded. Butterfield wouldn't know Alexandria, Egypt from Alexandria, Virginia but he was used to Bobby's crime scene ways and did what was asked without comment.

"I refused to say another word until you arrived. Not another word," Summit emphasized in the direction of a passing tech. The guy kept walking; he had obviously heard this already and had perfected ignoring her. She pouted. "I don't like the man they sent over. He's been trying to trick me into saying something misleading." She sniffled. "He smells too good. I don't trust a man who smells that good." Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't like the lady officer's tone." A fat tear rolled down her face. "It's very sarcastic and hurts my feelings." She wiped her nose on her track suit sleeve. "So disrespectful." They stopped on the third floor, walking through the open kitchen to a spacious dining room with a long dining room table that seated twelve. Forrester was sitting to the right of one end, his notebook out on the table while Eames hovered behind him near the big bay window.

Summit stumbled to the head of the table and plopped down. She flung her hand out. "Sanders and Gomez are here," she announced imperiously. "You may continue."

Forrester gave Gus a small, tight smile. Eames stepped forward and said "Mrs. Grey, you may want to call your lawyer."

"I don't need a lawyer now," she said petulantly. "My friends are here. Ask your ridiculous questions."


	5. Duck Duck Goose

**Note**: I don't own L&O, but I am borrowing a cup of Criminal Intent.

**Also**: Thanks, Squarey

**And**: Thanks for reading.

* * *

Sharpie whistled when his old partner sauntered into the interrogation room. "Why Mizz Augusta," he drawled in the South Carolina accent of his youth. "I do declare you look positively poured into that uniform."

She blew him a kiss as she sat down across from him.

"Mayor seen you yet?" Sharpie asked.

"No, why?"

"If he sees you in that uniform, he's going to wet himself." Sharpie eyed her up and down.

Gus shrugged and waved his comment aside. "I can't wait to get back to the desk," she said. "I forgot how much crap you carry on the belt and my back is killing me."

Sharpie smiled. "Seriously, though. Five kids later, and you still look good. Recruiting needs to make a poster of you."

"Why are you kissing my ass, Calvin Forrester? Having trouble with your little case and need my help?"

"Yeah, your new best friend Summit Grey killed her husband."

"I don't think she did."

"Tell me what happened," he said earnestly. "Why were you even there?"

Gus recounted her tale, leaving out the part about profiling white guys in suits. When she got to the part where Summit Grey had screamed, there was a tap on the glass and Sharpie left the room. He returned moments later with a cup of coffee for her which she held reverentially.

"So there was nothing about her that was suspicious?'" he asked. She shook her head. "Are you sure?" he persisted.

"Sure I'm sure," she answered. "Definitely a lush, acted odd but not my-husband's-upstairs-dead-because-I-killed-him odd." She took a sip of coffee, perfect Sharpie-made coffee, before continuing thoughtfully, "More like I-got-nothing-so-I-drink-all-day-and-Dr-Phil-is-my-most-meaningful-relationship kind of way."

Sharpie jotted some notes. Gus craned her neck to see what he was writing on. "That the ME report?" She squinted. She left her glasses in her locker.

"Yeah, tox screen's back," said Sharpie. Gus waited two and a half minutes before pouncing. "Well?" she questioned testily.

"Not your case, Uni," Sharpie admonished. "Major Case is on the scene." Gus reached for the paper just as Sharpie snatched it away.

"Fuck you," she said good-naturedly.

"My new partner doesn't curse at me," he said smugly. "She and I mutually respect each other. She's a _lady_." Gus rolled her eyes. "Hemlock poisoning," he confirmed. "Since I know you are going to drive me nuts until I tell you."

"Hemlock poisoning," Gus repeated. "Who does that anymore?"

"Who did it before?"

"Greeks," she said absently. "Favorite method of State sponsored executions back in the day." She sipped her coffee again. "Socrates was poisoned that way." She saw his wondering expression and shrugged. "Peter was Socrates last Halloween."

"Your brain freaks me out sometimes, Augusta Rose," he said.

"I miss you too, Sharps."

* * *

Eames sat with Bobby in another interview room and went over his statement. He'd lost a couple of pounds, trimmed his beard, and looked almost youthful in his uniform.

"Checking bags agrees with you," she said. _I miss you._

He grimaced. "I'm looking forward to spending days somewhere other than in the subway" _I'm looking forward to sitting across from you again. I miss you.  
_

"Seems like you came up just in time to find a body," she said sardonically. "What happened, Bobby? Even when you try, you really can't stay out of trouble."

"We were returning the bag to a guy who left it at the checkpoint," he said, ignoring her statement. He didn't feel like pointing out that this one was all Santelli.

"Which checkpoint?" She scribbled a note.

"Grand Central. Did you find out what's in the bag?"

Eames opened her mouth to answer, then decided to bait him. "Irrelevant to this questioning. Please continue with your statement, Officer."

Bobby refused to take it. He'd play it her way. "Wife was home, she'd been drinking. She used an intercom to call the husband and when he didn't answer, she went upstairs and found the body." He closed his notebook. "Eames, her shock was genuine. I don't think she did it."

Eames nodded. "Go on."

"I examined the body briefly while Santelli called it in," he said. "We figured homicide because of the suspicious nature of his symptoms."

"Your statement is consistent with our preliminary findings, Officer Goren." Eames placed the ME report on the table and turned it deliberately so Bobby could read it. "And what do you know, ME reports the guy had enough hemlock in him to kill an elephant."

Bobby scanned the contents. "The color of the face, the position of the tongue, and the extreme dilation of the pupils suggested hemlock," he processed aloud. "But it could have been half a dozen other poisons."

"Rodgers also said there was rapid decline of muscle tissue."

"Rhabdomyolysis," he said distractedly as he opened his notebook and jotted something down. He stopped and looked at Eames, who could hear the gerbil of Bobby's mind running in its wheel. "Socrates was poisoned with hemlock. It was the preferred capital punishment of ancient Greece."

"So Grey was a modern day Socrates?" she asked, puzzled. "What was this guy into?"

"Did you identify the figures in the bag?" Bobby inquired again.

"Still at the lab," Eames informed him. "We expect word back today."

"What now?"

"Well, technically, it's now in the hands of Major Case, so whatever I tell you is professional courtesy."

Considering himself chastised, he switched subjects. "How is your new partner?" His tone was stiff. She hid a smile. He was bothered she was working with someone else and his discomfort amused her.

"We're getting along," she responded. An understatement, but she could see it was a sore spot for Bobby. Calvin Forrester was a woman's dream come true; charming, sophisticated, witty, and incredibly handsome. He was also, tragically, as unattainable as unattainable could get. Still, he filled her days with fun. He had even convinced her to see his masseuse on a regular basis. She hadn't been this relaxed in years and had no doubt that once he went back to the basement, she and Calvin Forester would remain friends. "And yours?"

"We're getting along," he repeated her words back to her. An overstatement, since Augusta Santelli seemed to take pride in rubbing him the wrong way at every turn. She was a competent cop, though, and worked this assignment to expand her sizable network. She even managed to find some IAB leads based on tips from other uniforms. They hadn't made much progress finding Donnie, but she constantly told him to trust her and that patience was key. She was definitely forcing him to learn patience. And she was always trying to fix him up with one of her many sisters.

There was a rhythmic tap on the one way glass and Eames looked up. "That would be Forrester." She rose and gathered her papers. "He must be done with Santelli." Their gazes locked. So much to say, and yet all she could say was, "See ya, Bobby."

"Yeah, Eames," he said as he watched her walk out of the room.

* * *

"Detectives," said Danny Ross as he wandered over to their desks. Robert Goren's absence was conspicuous, but Ross was beginning to like seeing Calvin Forrester sitting there.

"Sir," said Forrester. Danny sipped his coffee. MCS' newest detective had manners, and his greeting was respectful and lacked the usual sarcasm Ross was used to hearing.

"What's the latest in the Grey case?' he asked, looking at Eames, since she was the senior partner. She raised her brows and tossed her head subtly in Forrester's direction. Damn, Danny forgot. Forrester was the senior partner. He turned and looked expectantly while Forrester flipped his legal pad.

"Interview with Summit Grey wasn't helpful," Forrester said. "She saw her husband come in, they exchanged some words, and then he went upstairs. Next time she saw him he was dead."

"Think she's hiding something?"

"I don't think she hides much," Calvin said diplomatically.

"She's certainly not hiding her drinking problem." Eames snarked as she walked over, leaned her hip on Forrester's desk, and folded her arms.

"What about Goren and Santelli?" Danny resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. The thought of those two mixed up in this gave him pains.

"As soon as they showed, she opened up and answered our questions. She feels safe with them," Forrester mused. "Although I can't imagine feeling calm with those two, neither one of them radiates tranquility exactly."

"We interviewed both Officers, Captain," put in Eames. "Goren and Santelli had a similar story and no reason to lie. The wife looks clean."

"Did we find out what the figures in the bag are?"

Calvin handed Ross some print outs of photos. "Near as the lab can figure, these are mid 5th century statues of Echidna and her children in terra cotta over bronze."

Eames leaned over and grabbed a page of info she had printed and handed it to Ross. "According to Greek mythology, Echidna was the mother of monsters. Her children were cited as the villains in classic stories and often killed by famous heroes - Odysseus, Hercules, Orion et cetera. The sphinx, the chimera, and the three headed dog of the underworld."

"Right, and the hydra." Ross responded. At their looks of surprise, he added, "Let's just say that I relate to the 12 Labors of Hercules and the hydra in particular. What's next?"

"We'll search his office and interview his co-workers on Sunday," Calvin informed him. "We need to find out why he had those figures. They are nearly priceless and not on any currently inventory lists for the Museum." Forrester gestured with his felt pen to the lists the Museum had faxed over earlier.

"But it's Friday." Ross pointed out.

"Greek and Roman staff has tomorrow off," Eames explained. "Apparently it was reward for working long hours on a recent installation of Roman shields."

"Executive management will be available on Sunday, museum's closed on Monday." Calvin replied. "We've done a preliminary search of Grey's office, found nothing, and sealed it. We'll meet the Head Curator first thing Sunday morning and appropriate staff was notified to be available, including Grey's assistant who has been out for the last week."

"OK. First thing Sunday, keep me posted." Ross walked away, shaking his head. He had to call the Deputy Mayor and assure the administration that the water reply was safe. He turned in time to see Eames lean close to Sharpie and smile at whatever it is he said. She nodded emphatically, confirming whatever it was for the next morning at 6am, and sauntered back to her desk. Ross hadn't seen Eames so relaxed and easy in, well, never. He sat down and began to dial.


	6. Grover Goes to the Met

Note: Don't own much. What's mine is mine, what's not is not.

And: Thanks for reading.

* * *

Bobby came awake suddenly, the shrill chirp of his cell ringing a jarring reminder it was morning. He rubbed a hand over his face and shifted on the couch, wincing at the protest of his joints and bones. He was getting too old to get drunk and pass out upright on the couch, but his patrol days were ending and he had felt the need to celebrate.

He reached over slowly to grab the phone; its insistent ring fell silent for a second only to start again. Maybe it was Eames.

"Goren." His voice cracked, sounding like he had been drinking scotch and smoking cigarettes all night, which of course, he had. His mouth tasted like he had eaten a pile of fallen fall leaves.

"You awake Goren?" Damn, it was Santelli. Not Eames.

"Yeah," he said. It was Sunday, they weren't working any cases together, so what the hell did she want? He heard a knock at his door.

"Hold on," he said to the phone. Maybe that was Eames dropping by so they could go to breakfast and catch up on cases before he was back at MCS next week. He opened the door to find Santelli standing there, snapping her phone shut. Her other hand was resting on the handle of a stroller in which a sandy-haired child of about two sat. Another brown-haired boy, this one older, five maybe, was peering up at him from behind her legs. His glasses were thick and he had about fourteen years to go before he grew into that nose. Both boys looked at him with wide eyes.

"Sweet suffering Jesus, Goren," she said, eyeing his mis-buttoned down shirt, undone pants with the colorful boxers beneath, and morning stubble. She gingerly sniffed the air. "Had a party, did we?" She peered into his apartment strewn with bottles and cigarette butts. "Anyone I know? Jim Beam maybe? Or his friend Jack Daniels." She threw him a disgusted look.

"I, uh, didn't know anyone was dropping by," he said lamely, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He nodded at the kid, who had stepped out from behind his mother.

"You don't look so good, mister," said the older kid.

"He's not a mister, honey," said his mother. "He's a Bobby. Officer Bobby Goren, this is Henry. Henry, this is Officer Goren." The little boy held out his hand and Bobby bent over to shake it, his back creaking in protest.

She indicated the kid in the stroller. "This is Forrest. We call him Pip." The little boy in the stroller pointed and Bobby and said "Grover!" to his mother.

Santelli considered the blue shirt, the fuzzy face and the reddened nose. She nodded. "Good eye, Pip. He does look like Grover." She leaned down to kiss the boy loudly as he squirmed. She stood and looked at Bobby. "You've got 20 minutes to pull yourself together," she informed him. "We'll wait in the car. After we drop Henry off at his aunt Gail's, we'll head out."

"To, uh, to where?"

"The Met of course." She rolled her eyes and turned her brood toward the elevator. "20 minutes! We're double parked." she called back.

* * *

"Why hello, Mrs. McQueen! We haven't seen you in a month of Sundays." The jovial lady behind the desk greeted Gus warmly. She looked sheepish when she spotted Bobby behind Gus, carrying the sleeping child. "Sorry!" she nearly whispered, not wishing to wake him. "Which one have you got there?" She said to Bobby.

"Forrest," said Santelli as she signed them in. "Calvin is with his grandmother today and the Professor has the rest of them. This is my cousin, Bobby Goren. Bobby, this is Hazel Woods. She keeps things running down here."

"Down here" was in the belly of the massive Metropolitan Museum of Art. As a member for many years, Bobby thought he had taken all the behind the scenes tours, but he had never been down here. Gus had driven around the back and guided her SUV into an underground parking garage. She greeted the security guards by name, who in turn waved back at her. She parked and began to unload, indicating that Bobby should carry Forrest while she pushed the stroller with a diaper bag in it. He delicately lifted the boy into his arms while Pip slept soundly. "He's not gonna wake up," Gus had assured him. "Pip's a sleeper." She smiled at her son and looked back at Bobby. "Thanks, Goren."

"For what?"

She cleared her throat. "Today isn't a day I can carry my own kid," she said baldly. She made a pained face and rubbed at her shoulder where the bullet was lodged.

"Oh, uh, no problem." Admitting weakness was not something she did often. He understood the concept. "Where are we going?"

"Greg is a Scholar-in-Residence here, and has been since his pre-doctorate days at Columbia." She entered an elevator and pressed a button. "So he gets a tiny office in the basement in return for his articles and research, which is conducted under the auspices of the museum."

"I don't understand," said Bobby. "I thought your husband was a high school history teacher."

She nodded. "That's his day job. In his free time, when he's not re-enacting the Civil War, he is usually here researching obscure artifacts and writing articles for brainy magazines and journals." She shrugged. The elevator dinged and opened. "Aussies," she said as if that explained everything.

Bobby thought about his own interaction with Aussies, and decided to let her statement hang.

"So the Professor won't be joining us then?" Hazel Woods asked, bringing Bobby back to the present.

"Not today, Hazel," Gus replied. "I'm just stopping in to pick up something for the Professor, and show Bobby here the behind the scenes glamour of the basement, then we will be on our way."

"Oh, take your time!" cooed Hazel. "And welcome Mr Goren! Please let me know if you have any questions."

Gus led Bobby down a narrow hallway that was lined with old filing cabinets that reminded him of high school. The lights were glaring fluorescents that didn't do much to illuminate the space. They took a short walk when Gus hung a left and stopped in front of a door. She fished for a key and, after unlocking the door, led Bobby into a tiny, windowless cement office. She flipped on the switch and headed to the desk to turn on the computer.

"There's a portable crib over there," she indicated to the left. "You can put him down."

Bobby did as she said and turned. "Santelli," he asked. "What are we doing here?"

She looked at him over the rim of her glasses. "Do you know where your partner was yesterday, Goren?" At his confused look she corrected herself. "Your real partner?" He shook his head.

"Eames was in Pennsylvania with my partner, my husband, and two of my kids playing paintball. Do you know where your partner is today, Goren?"

"Uh…paintball?"

"Yeah, paintball. Sharpie and Greg take Peter and Charlie every so often. And Alex went this weekend. I think my oldest is a little in love with her." Santelli focused back on the computer screen and typed. The computer made a noise. She made a face, cocked her head to the left and tried again, only to meet with the same result. She frowned and flipped off the screen, flopping herself into the desk chair. She spun once in frustration, and then started to rummage through drawers. Bobby waited. Gus looked right to left and leaned back. "OK, think like Greg…" she said to herself. She spun in the chair once, slapped her hands on the desk and then leaned forward to type excitedly. She punched the air as the computer logged her husband on. "That son of a bitch."

Bobby cocked his head to the right.

"High school girlfriend's name," she explained. "Where was I?"

"Eames, Pennsylvania, yesterday, today…"

"Right, so apparently, Eames shot Sharpie. This has never been intentionally done in the five years he's been taking my kids to paintball."

"Eames is an accomplished markswoman." Bobby said, still lost.

"Uh huh. But Sharpie has a bronze in the men's 50 meters from the Moscow games in 1980. No one shoots Sharpie." She smiled widely. "Wish I could have seen it. He's been hit once in the years he's been going to that range, and that's because Greg tripped in a hole and accidentally discharged his gun."

"Santelli, what are we doing here." Bobby was running out of patience. He was too hung over to deal with her today.

"OK, so when Charlie got home and waxed poetic about Eames, he let slip that Uncle Sharpie and Alex would be at the Museum today, which I figure has to do with the Grey case."

"You used your own kid as a snitch," Bobby stated, not willing to believe it.

She gave him a dirty look. "Yeah, I did. How do you think I know what the high school girlfriend's name is?"

"Do you use everyone as a snitch?"

"Pretty much." She scrolled through the computer until she found what she was looking for. "Aha. Here we go." She waved Goren over. He reluctantly joined her.

"Come on, Goren," Santelli cajoled. "You can't tell me you aren't curious about this case. That house was weird, the wife was weird, and those little figures are weird."

"Do they know what the figures are?" Bobby found himself asking. Damnit, he _was_ curious. This was likely going to end in a giant setback for his career. He had a brief vision of his future which involved unending subway stations and Santelli. Maybe Deakins would hire him in the private sector.

"One of my lab rats told me they were terra cotta over bronze figurines, monsters from Greek mythology. Very old, priceless even, and according to this database, not in the museum's inventory." She shoved the chair back from the desk and let him in for a closer look.

Bobby leaned over and checked out the screen. "How could that be? Museums these days are precise with their records and the provenance of artifacts is carefully documented." He looked up when he heard the sleeping kid stir. Santelli got up from her seat and checked, but Pip was still out. She watched him for a few minutes, and leaned down to brush her fingers through his hair. She straightened and headed back to the computer desk.

"Something doesn't add up," Santelli stated the obvious. She tapped a couple of keys as Bobby sat in the chair and suddenly a master calendar came into view. She clicked the mouse to the Roman and Greek department and they could see that most of today was blocked off with the letters N Y P D.


End file.
